Phantoms
by Jina E. Evergeen
Summary: As Rhaegar Targaryen prepares to cross swords with Robert Baratheon, his mind paints pictures of a lily, faded scene.


**Phantoms**

**By Jina E. Evergreen**

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Rhaegar Targaryen thought of love and death as he edged his lunar blade. The beams of midday sunlight invaded his tent, breathing radiancy to the world around him. He was to ride at nightfall, to face the man responsible for all the discord of the realm, the man who dared to desire his Lyanna. Robert Baratheon had crawled his way to power over the corpses of Targaryen soldiers, and Rhaegar would have him hang right next to his bastard ally Eddard Stark. Lyanna would understand. Lyanna would forgive him.

Ah, Lyanna Stark. She wasn't his by noble right, but she was his by every other law of nature. She was a wolf, a wild storm he worshipped. Even as a thousand hills and rivers stood between them, Rhaegar recalled her image so vividly it almost pained him. All faded into nothingness, all gave way to the blazing visage of the she-wolf. His father, the realm, the throne. Even the smile of his gentle wife as she rocked their children to sleep. They were all ice and Lyanna Stark was fire. Rhaegar could think of no one matching the vigor of her flame.

The image of a wench with golden hair surfaced in his mind without warning. Tywin Lannister's daughter, the one the Hand had plotted to marry him to. _Cersei_, Rhaegar remembered with effort. The girl had been a feast of a sight, blessed with both beauty and confidence to rival those of a goddess.

One time the King held a regale that the Lannisters attended, and the girl sat at Rhaegar's left. His brisk eyes explored the coils of her fair hair, his fingers itching to be thread through that golden swamp. The Prince wondered what that platinum mane would look like, was it shaded even lighter, like his own. The Lannister damsel kept her look averted like a respectable lady, which gave him plenty of room for observation. All her motions screamed decency, but the low cut of her silken gown and the flakes of deeper understanding in her eyes claimed otherwise.

As the feast went on and the courses flowed in an endless river, Rhaegar took notice of the way she sunk her teeth into the roasted meat. Graceful yet feral. A lioness to live up to her father's name and reputation.

A guard interrupted the supper, bringing forth a ragged scamp who'd stolen something from a handmaid's chambers.

Rhaegar's father ordered for the thief to be burned right in the middle of the courtroom, and the whole lot of noble women covered their eyes and did their best to hide their muffled whimpers. Rhaegar watched closely. His father often told him that there was an art to how a flame would carve itself into the flesh of different texture. And indeed, exploring the dance of the fire was a thrill like no other. When Rhaegar turned to see how the lady to his left was coping, he was astir to find her gaze fixed on the wildfire, her face a mixture of excitement and something else. Only then did he realize their hands were linked.

Afterwards, he recalled laying eyes on her a few more times, though what had truly left an impression had been the way her brother stared at him as he did so. As though his sister was a part of his property that Rhaegar was attempting to purloin. The Prince had never really bothered to reason why.

"Shall we march forth, my Lord?"

Rhaegar flinched, sliding back in reality. The bizarre taste of his unexpected daydream still oozed on his tongue. He looked up to see the knight that had cautiously entered his tent and now regarded him with humble eyes. Outside, dusk had already veiled the sky. Rhaegar got up, his hair silver, more silver than the moon. He always let it fly around him freely and scream his lineage to the world. It was his other crown. The one he was born wearing, not the one that would one day weigh on his head.

"Dispatch a raven to my father. Send word that his son shall soon be dancing across the backs of dead rebels."

"Certainly, my Lord." The man withdrew from the tent, his armour shimmering against the last remnants of sunlight.

Rhaegar thrust his sword back in its sheath, mind wandering back to reflect on his thoughts. Of course, it was Lyanna Stark whose name he'd roar as he swung his flawless blade at Robert Baratheon. It was her touch he'd crave throughout the many sleepless nights of blood and battle. It was her face he'd see lingering before him whenever he chose to close his eyes. Not Elia Martell. Most certainly not Cersei Lannister.

He left the tent and mounted his snow-white stallion, leading thousands of brave men on their way to ruin, to glory and to a red-colored horizon. All the while wondering why he had spent the afternoon thinking about a woman not likely to be thought of. Perhaps he would never come to understand.

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**A/N: **_A bizarre one, I know, but I think I could do way worse. Just something to indicate what could have been, had Aerys not been such a major jerk to Tywin. Thanks for stopping by. _


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